The Adventure of the Buried Detective
by Nova-chan
Summary: Holmes and Watson are investigating a woman's disappearance and subsequent murder. The responsible party appears to be the leader of a satanic cult. As they get closer and closer to an arrest, Holmes finds that he may have gotten in over his head...
1. Chapter 1

Hello! My name is Marill, and I will be writing for you today. This is my first attempt at this category, and I am having a lot of fun!

* * *

--Watson--

I sat, intrigued by the narratives in the morning's paper, hoping to enjoy a few hours of solace before heading out for my greatly cherished Sunday afternoon walk. I sipped a fresh cup of hot tea as I read an article about the London museum's acquisition of the latest finds from an archaeology dig in Egypt. Archaeology always struck me as a fascinating occupation. It was likely back-breaking work, but with great rewards. I could imagine the thrill of a discovery after weeks or even months of searching and digging. The vast riches alone that one could happen upon were enough to make any man consider changing professions.

This particular train of thought was interrupted by a startling cry from the private quarters of my fellow boarder, nearly causing me to spill my tea. Though the vocalization had sounded like "Eureka!", I still called out to my roommate to ask if all was well.

I didn't have to wait long for a reply, as he swung his door open and swiftly entered the sitting room, presenting me with some sort of fabric that he seemed quite enthralled by. "Watson, this may very well be the greatest discovery of the nineteenth century!"

My roommate is none other than Sherlock Holmes, London's greatest detective (and perhaps the greatest the world has ever known). Ever since I decided to go halves on a living arrangement with this man, I have seen my life transformed from one of quiet reflection and respectable medical practice to one of danger, intrigue and mystery. I have been Holmes' aid in several of his difficult cases and have taken a liking to chronicling these adventures, as I like to call them.

I am constantly astounded by Holmes' impeccable deductive skills as well as his ability to ward off his foes. He is a student of martial arts, as well as being a proficient boxer and swordsman. It defies my logic that a man so sound of mind can also possess the raw fighting abilities of a street tough.

My companion was standing in front of me, one shirtsleeve rolled up, preparing to give a demonstration of his newest discovery. During periods of inactivity, he usually becomes quite dispirited and refuses to rise from the couch or his bed for days on end. When there are no cases for him to ponder, he hardly eats or converses with anyone. Occasionally he even resorts to the use of drugs for amusement, a habit which I am quite opposed to. However, at times when he focuses his energy on his chemical experiments, I am glad, nay thrilled, to see him straying from his usual habits.

Holmes lit a candle on the side table and held up the cloth so that I could clearly see the experiment. "I have created a solution that, when used to treat any cloth, results in the cloth being completely fire-proof," he stated in an animated fashion. Holmes picked up the candle and held the piece of ragged cloth directly in the flame. Half a minute passed by as I observed the phenomenon.

I congratulated my friend on this accomplishment, but he held up a hand to silence me. "That is not all," he assured me. He then wrapped the cloth over his arm and held the candle against it. To my amazement, he then moved the flame up and down his bare skin. With a proud grin he said, "I also treated my arm with the solution."

"Why, Holmes, this is a most astonishing discovery! Thank how it may revolutionize home safety! Personal affects will be protected from near disaster!" I might have continued on had his confused expression not halted my excitement.

"I had actually thought more on the application of the solution being one of protection from extreme weather conditions. It has already been effective in protecting the bare skin from extreme cold, even for a longer period of time than it protects from heat." With a dignified look, he explained to me his sentiments. "You see, Watson, the solution I have created is not quite viscous enough to bond with cloth or most materials easily. The cloth I used for the demonstration had to be covered centimetre by centimetre in order to have the desired effect."

His hand waving dismissively in the air, I had the chance to notice several portions of charred skin on his forearm. "I see you had a bit of bad luck during your trials," I said. "Shall I fetch my medical bag and treat those burns?"

I was already standing but he shook his head. "It's no bother. Not even comparable to a sunburn."

Before I could insist otherwise, there was a knock at the door and our housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson entered the sitting room carrying a telegram. "Mr. Holmes," said she, "this just came for you."


	2. Chapter 2

We arrived by cab at a bridge that straddled a small river on the northeastern part of town. Lestrade greeted us and led us down the steep hill to the underside of the bridge. A few officers were milling around, conversing with one another. A young woman's body lay near the river, partially covered by a sheet.

"This is Elisabeth Godber," Lestrade said, motioning toward the body. "She went missing three days ago, on her way home from confession. She was found this morning, hung from the bridge."

"Suicide?" I asked, quietly.

"Don't look to be that way," said Lestrade with a frown. Holmes was kneeling beside the body, uncovering her from the sheet and examining her condition. "We can't find a single clue to point us in any direction," Lestrade fumed, obviously frustrated. "Nothing on her disappearance, and nothing to tell us why or by whom she was murdered."

"She's missing a finger," said Holmes, holding up the lifeless hand.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, we noticed that," Lestrade quipped, barely concealing sarcasm.

"Ah, then you have clearly discovered a great piece of evidence, contrary to what you were saying, eh?"

Lestrade blinked a couple of times. "Well, it obviously tells us that her murderer was deranged. But, then, most murderers are, Mr. Holmes."

Gently and in a solemn manner, Holmes rolled the poor girl onto her side. He stretched the back of her dress down, to reveal several long, thin lesions that looked to have only recently ceased bleeding. The lesions seemed to go down farther than the dress would allow us to see. I studied the woman. She only looked to be around thirty years old. She had short and wavy brown hair and a pretty face. She wore a sully white, lacy gown, which could have been a wedding dress for all I could tell. There were abrasions around her neck from the noose she had worn, but aside from the lashes on her back and the missing finger, she appeared to be completely unharmed otherwise. She hadn't a single bruise on her showing flesh, nor a scratch, which was very odd considering the torment she must have gone through, given her other injuries.

"So, her attacker flogged her 'cross the back, then," Lestrade was saying. He put a hand to his chin, thoughtfully. "What do you make of it, Holmes?"

Holmes stood up and said, "Ms. Godber has obviously been the victim of a ritual cult killing. A Satanist cult, to be specific."

"How can you be so certain?" asked Lestrade.

"I needed only two shreds of evidence to be completely certain, but in fact I have found several more that lead to the same conclusion," Holmes said. "My first two clues were the dress she's wearing and the missing ring finger. The dress obviously does not belong to her, as it is made of very inexpensive fabric. The London Godbers are considerably wealthy and this is a very cheaply-made wedding gown, which she would not have worn to a confessional. Clearly, her aggressors dressed her in this way. The wedding dress and severed ring finger are symbolic of a marriage to Satan, which is the ritual the cult was playing out. There is also biblical symbolism in the three day period between her disappearance and her being found dead. The lashes across her back represent the suffering of Christ. She has also been raped, but I shall decline to reveal how I deduced that fact."

A chill passed over me upon hearing Holmes' explanation. I did not like to believe that persons so disturbed and cruel lived such a short distance from Holmes and myself.

"Well, gentlemen," said Holmes, "I will look more closely at this matter and will alert you if I should need your assistance. Good day." At this, he turned and traipsed back up the steep hill, presumably on his way into town to consult his information sources and look about for clues.

His air of confidence put me at ease. Had I known that this investigation would end with my friend in a coffin, I would have been shaking in my boots as I watched him leave.


	3. Chapter 3

I hadn't expected Holmes to be at our flat when I returned there, but he was, half-buried in dusty, old books and news articles. As I hung my coat on its rack, my companion exclaimed "Astonishing! Watson, were you aware that a short 25 years ago a satanic cult was disbanded in this very area? I knew that I remembered having read something on the subject, but I did not know how short a time ago it was! Most of the cult's prime members were sentenced to death after murdering a governor's wife in some sort of sacrificial ritual. However, what no one at that time knew was that the governor's wife was, in fact, a cult member herself."

"However did you conclude that?" I asked in great wonder. I had ceased to second-guess the great Sherlock Holmes in matters of his specialty. I asked in earnest curiosity.

"It was simple, really," said Holmes. "I came to this conclusion in much the same way that I deduced Elisabeth Godber's membership in the cult."

"She was a member as well?" I cried. "Why would they murder their own followers, and in such a barbaric manner?"

"That is a great question, indeed. I would surmise that Miss Godber was a willing participant in her own murder. She shows no signs of being drugged into willingness, and yet it appears that she did not put up a struggle throughout her torments. Such was also the unexplained case of the governor's wife 25 years ago."

"You're saying that Miss Godber volunteered to be lashed, murdered, raped –to have her finger severed – and for what? To please the cult?" I asked.

"Perhaps she was led to believe that she would receive great rewards in her afterlife, having made such a generous sacrifice," suggested Holmes.

I shuddered at the thought. "What an awful demise," I managed to say.

"Indeed," Holmes agreed. "Well, Watson, I shall be heading out to gather still more information. I believe I have determined all possible from these books." He took up his coat, hat and cane with the usual energy he had when on a case. Holmes always seemed to be in a whirlwind of activity when he was ensconced in a great mystery. Always at least two steps ahead of any other investigator, my friend never seemed to be lacking a steady stream of boundless information that was quite unbelievable to an outsider.

Fascinated though I was, I had to put my interest in the case aside so that I could look over a few of the medical files I was working at. Injuries healing nicely, scheduled surgeries upcoming, a case of pneumonia that was looking dire. I gazed absentmindedly at the large volume on cults left open on Holmes' desk. Perhaps it was procrastination, perhaps curiosity, or even good fortune, but I was drawn to the book and abandoned all my work 'til a later time.

--

Marill: Hmm, that was rather short…anyway, only two more chapters until it gets good (you know, in the way that we rabid fans so enjoy it).


	4. Chapter 4

Holmes returned that night sometime after I had gone to sleep, because when I awoke the next morning he was making noise in the sitting room. I drew my house robe around me and ventured out into our shared room to see what he was doing. He was in fact, fast at work lighting different objects in the room ablaze, and then promptly dousing them with his newfound solution, apparently running some sort of trial. I grabbed his arm to stop him when he moved to set my trousers on fire.

"Good morning, Watson," said he congenially. "I was merely biding my hours until the time of confessions."

"Sleep did not seem a better way to use your time?" I wondered, glancing at his dark and fatigued eyes. "So, you plan to question Elisabeth Godber's priest, I take it?" The obvious choice, as I was quite certain that Holmes had never and would never step inside a confessional to repent of his own shortcomings.

"Indeed," said Holmes. "I believe that he is at least involved, if not in fact the leader of the cult himself."

"Excellent," said I. "How did you determine this?"

"All in good time, dear Watson. Before I give you my reasons for thinking him guilty, we must pay a visit to the man and conduct a thorough search of his offices."

**

A few hours later found us at the front of a very spectacular cathedral several miles from our home. I stared in awe at the stained glass panes and distinguished brick towers that adorned the massive church. It was portentous, and with a certain sense of intimidation about it.

"This is Father McKinn's chapel," said Holmes evenly. "This is where he holds the rituals of the cult." He was running his hand along the iron railing leading up the stairs.

"You believe that he would hold those awful rituals _here_? At his otherwise Roman Catholic cathedral?" I asked in disbelief.

"Observe," he said, motioning to a few potted plants next to the entrance. "They are blatantly growing an herb which can be used for its mind-altering effects and spiritual visions. I assure you that this plant is used during some of their rituals. Anyhow, shall we venture inside to speak with the dark lord himself?" he asked with a kind of sinister smile.

My stomach tightened as I entered the realm of the unknown. I did not know what to expect or what to watch out for. Holmes brazenly walked straight down the foyer and through two heavy wooden doors. Upon entering, it appeared to be a harmless, but immodest chapel. Light wood benches faced a dais, which was adorned with a golden cross. The ceiling was 100 yards at the very least with great rafters and stained glass art lining the walls and ceiling. Lanterns were lined up all the way down the aisles. Built into the far wall behind the pulpit was the confessional, tall and ominous, draped with a velvety red curtain.

I turned to Holmes as he said, "Let us have a look around while the good Father is busy at work." He paused, then sighed. "Never mind, I believe that's him approaching now."

"Hello, gentlemen," said a voice behind us. I hadn't heard any indication that anyone was there until hearing his voice. "Are you here for confessions?" he asked meekly. I faced the man that Holmes believed to be the mastermind of the horrors forced upon Elisabeth Godber. Never have I seen someone who looked so impossibly humble and innocent of any wrongdoing. The priest had white, soft hair which rested in a sort of halo around his balding head. He was a portly man, with big blushing cheeks that sat in a constant smile. He wore a long white robe with golden tassels tied around his waist. For all eyes to behold, he was the perfect image of a grandfather and a pious man of the cloth.

"Father McKinn, I presume," asked Holmes in way of greeting. McKinn gave a slight nod and smiled. "Father, we are actually here for a different purpose. May we speak with you privately, perhaps in your office?"

"Why of course, follow me," said McKinn, leading us into a side room.

The priest sat behind his meager desk and Holmes and I sat across from him in two tall, uncomfortable chairs. "Would either of you like to have a cup of tea?" the gentleman wondered, amiably.

"Most assuredly not," said Holmes. "Now about the business of our visit: a member of your congregation was recently abducted and murdered."

"Ah, yes, poor Elisabeth," the priest lamented. He took off his glasses and put his face in his hands momentarily. I glanced at Holmes, who was not impressed by this show of grief. "We'll be holding a service for the poor girl later in the week."

"Are you aware of the circumstances surrounding her death?" Holmes pressed.

The priest did not falter. "I have heard say that she was missing three days and found dead, hanging." He gave a visible shudder at these words. "She was such a kind and virtuous woman, sir. I feel as though I don't believe that it really happened." He placed his glasses back on his face. "Are you gentlemen police officers?" he asked.

I apologized, realizing that Holmes and I had not introduced ourselves. "I am Dr. Watson, Father. And this is my colleague Sherlock Holmes. He is investigating the case of Miss Godber."

"Ah, yes, I have heard of your successes in crime-solving, sir," said McKinn. "It is very much a pleasure and relief to know that you will be getting to the bottom of this dreadful ordeal."

"Well, it is quite the tricky situation," Holmes drawled facetiously. "Miss Godber was a member of a satanic cult, and a willing party in her murder. She was sacrificed in some sort of ritual killing."

The priest appeared confused. "I balk at those insinuations, sir! Elisabeth Godber was as kind and honest a woman as they come. She was certainly not a member of any cult!"

"What's more, I believe that the ritual took place in this very sanctuary," said Holmes fearlessly. "My friend and I were witness to your ceremonial plants outside."

I was uneasy with all of Holmes' accusations. Perhaps it was the priest's calm demeanor and placid appearance, but I began to feel that we were cornering the wrong person. Holmes, on the other hand, was full of resolve and assured that his suspicions were correct.

"Those herbs are simply used in cooking, Mr. Holmes," said McKinn, calmly. "Once a week my congregation and I provide a meal for the homeless." The priest stood, seemingly hurt that he or his church had become embroiled in the scandal. "Gentlemen, I would ask that you leave. Your claims are not wanted in this sanctuary of peace." He moved to the door and opened it, gesturing that we should move through it. To my astonishment, Holmes graciously left, apologizing to McKinn as he passed. Staggered by the events, I mumbled an apology and followed Holmes.

Once in the foyer, I said, "Holmes, did we have the wrong man? He seemed innocent enough."

Holmes balked at the suggestion. "Innocent enough? What meaning has that? Watson, that man is most certainly involved in the cult, and he personally laid his hands on Miss Godber to kill her. I am even surer of it now than I was previously." We walked outside, adorning our gloves and wrapping our scarves in the cold. "This case shall be solved very soon. I only need one more piece of evidence and we can place Father McKinn and his entire congregation in handcuffs."


	5. Chapter 5

--Holmes--

Certain parts of this narrative I have been asked by Watson to recount. I was unaccompanied during periods of crucial happenings and after much consideration, I have taken up the pen to write, if only to bring light to the fascinating details. My writing may appear a bit slipshod and almost haphazard, and for that I do apologize, for I am much more accustomed to writing quickly and in shorthand.

I parted from Watson after leaving the Reynolds Road Cathedral. The church had originally served as a Lutheran chapel, then for several years a Catholic cathedral, and now, of course, as a den for the cult.

As for Andrew McKinn, my observations had led me to deduce the following in addition to his first name, which had been changed from Francis at some point: he was born in Ireland but remained there for only 10-15 years at which point he made a permanent move to England—in the countryside; his residence in the city of London had only begun recently, within the last year or so. These facts I had concluded from his accent alone. His previous occupation had been that of a traveling salesman, due to the number of trinkets and knickknacks adorning his office. He was a very frugal man, I observed, as the furniture in his office was worn and old, although his church was very successful. Such a man would not have a fancy for buying worthless baubles; therefore I deduced that they were leftover from his trade.

He was without doubt involved in the cult dealings, as evidenced by the emblem of an inverted pentagram upon a thick volume on his bookshelf, which had recently been read. The other books surrounding it were covered in a sheer layer of dust.

My first instinct told me that he was the mastermind behind the cult, but after interviewing with him, I began to think that he was more likely a follower, but in a high position of power. His reactions to my accusations were genuinely angry, as if he were protecting his master whom I was callously attacking. He also lacked a certain self-assured quality that I would expect from a cult leader. Such a person would be unlikely to take a public position as McKinn had anyhow.

As I pondered these dealings, I headed to call upon my most recent source of information for the unusual matter at hand. One of the fine Irregulars, upon whom I rely for affairs of non-public information, referred me to a young woman who was a self-described "mystic." She was called Rose, but her given name was Rosetta Bianchi. She had immigrated from Italy at a young age, was in her early thirties, was never married, had no children, and had an allergy to silver. I had made several other observations that were less interesting. Miss Bianchi was the forerunner in knowledge on cult activity in the area, as many of her clients traveled from all across the British Isle to seek her so-called wisdom.

My first encounter with this woman was a great annoyance, as she was quite more interested in reading my fortune in tarot cards and trying to give me a spiritual divination than she was in trying to provide me with information. I had finally wrestled some scattered facts from her, and now I regrettably was forced to seek her again for her knowledge of the occult.

I entered her small basement home, which was underneath a tailor's shop. The smell of herbs, incense, and animals met me immediately. Miss Bianchi had an affection for small, furry creatures, which she occasionally cut up and used as methods of divining wisdom in her practices.

"Inspector Sherlock?" a voice called from within the recesses of the smells, the shimmering cloths, the altars, and relics. Somehow she knew it was me before I had even gotten a few feet inside. It was unsettling when I realized that she hadn't deduced my presence: she was only guessing.

"Yes, Miss Bianchi," I answered. "I have returned to ask you a few more favors."

I went further into her home, my eyes watering from the different incense smokes about the room. Two brown rabbits, a finch, several mice, and a cat ran about freely. Several other-worldly god statues adorned tables set around the living space, along with feathers, stones, shells, and Indian evil eyes.

"Call me Rose," said she, appearing from behind a dividing wall in a twirl of pink clothing. "You are here for more information about the cult."

"Quite," said I, sighing. "But, that should have been very obvious, Miss Bianchi, as I would have no other business to see to at your…abode."

She turned on me with a look of fierce seriousness. "Someday, sir, you will have no answers for the questions you seek. At that point you will turn to me for my wisdom. For, I am endowed with the insight of all the great spirits-of God, of the Buddha, of Vishnu and Shiva!"

I offered a congenial smile, if only to appease the woman. "I am turning to you now, my dear," I said, trying to affect a charming voice. "I must know what, if anything, the cult is planning to do next."

She walked forward, almost close enough to cause me to back away. In a split second she had grabbed the sides of my head, embedding her fingers in my hair and closing her eyes. "Madam!" I shouted at the indignation, not knowing what to do.

"Shh!" she warned. Then she started to emit a low hum, which lasted for a dozen seconds. "You are exhausted, Inspector Sherlock. You must allow me to revive your crown chakra."

"I have no time for this foolishness!" I said, removing her hands from my hair. What I had to go through with this ridiculous person just to garner a little information! I wished for all the world that I could just pay her and be done with it! "A young woman is dead," I insisted, switching my tactics, "and the same age as you. If you do not give me the information I need on this cult, others may die while we fritter the time away!"

--

I hadn't realized how little time there was after all. From the new information Miss Bianchi had permitted me, I had but a few hours in which to prevent another murder. I raced back to Baker Street to inform Watson of the development, only to find that he was absent. Upon inquiring to Mrs. Hudson for his whereabouts, I found that he was in surgery, and had been for about two hours. The nature of the surgery was trifling, and so I hastily wrote a note instructing Watson to meet with me at the cathedral by dusk. That gave my colleague an additional two hours to arrive home, read my note and arrive to assist me in hindering the cult's ritual. How unfortunate it was that I had miscalculated on this and another very critical account.

--

With the swiftness and caution of a burglar, I entered the foyer of the church. I began to creep upon the door to the main cathedral, listening and slowly opening it. The room was empty, as I would have expected. Their dark dealings must have been done in some alternate and hidden chamber. I searched around for a hidden door or passageway but found no luck. Then, upon a happy realization, I ventured into Father McKinn's private office. Indeed, a preliminary search revealed a door concealed behind his bookshelf. Being ever observant, I followed the darkened hallway which led steadily underground.

As I got deeper inside the mysterious chamber, I began to hear the faint sounds of chanting, and I saw the glimmer of several hundred candles from afar. I slowed my pace and skulked upon the scene. I remained just out of sight so that I could watch the proceedings without being spotted. I saw Father McKinn kneeling before an altar, his lips swiftly moving with the chant. There were at least two dozen participants, all cloaked in blood-red hoods and robes, save for McKinn, who remained in his priest's robe. A man, unknown to myself, but quite obviously the cult's leader, stood behind the altar, watching his fold with a chilling expression. The walls of the room were made up of dirt, as if the place had been carved out in the soil. Candles were staggered about the room, surrounding the chanters.

I realized with a sickening feeling that something was missing: the sacrifice. _Bollocks. _Just as I took a step backwards and had the beginning thoughts of what I was walking into, stars exploded before my eyes and the world faded into darkness.

--

Marill: I tried to vary Holmes' writing style from Watson, as I assume his would be very different. It's meant to be rushed and somewhat jumbled.


	6. Chapter 6

--Holmes--

Blurry images and muffled sounds were the next pieces of awareness I had. I tried with great difficulty to blink away the cloudiness in my eyes. I moved my head just slightly and felt a staggering jolt of pain in return.

I tried to reorient myself and decipher my situation. I forced myself to focus on the stimuli I could make out. I was cold. My body was not properly covered by my clothing. I heard voices speaking in a language I could not understand. My head was in great pain. My arms were wrenched so tightly behind my back that my breathing was hampered. I tried moving my arms to the front of me to no avail, realizing they were bound together. This knowledge helped to bring my mind back to awareness.

I looked at my surroundings. I was underground. There were men in red cloaks saying chants amongst a littering of candles. At once, the memory of the case returned to me and I remembered being knocked unconscious while spying on the cult.

I was sitting on the cold, earthen ground, naked save for my trousers and under things. My hands were tied around a tall, wooden stake and pulled behind my back. Father McKinn knelt before me silently, just out of the reach of my outstretched legs.

"What are you planning to do?" I asked, bluntly.

His face broke into a kind smile. "My Master's work," he simply said.

Before I could press him further, the cult's leader appeared before me and removed his black hood. All chanting stopped and my heart thumped wildly in my ribcage.

"Very nice to see you awake, Inspector," the man said. "I knew you would arrive sooner or later."

I studied him. He was in his fifties and owned a white cat. More likely than not, he lived alone and had not been in town for very long. I had to stop myself, reasoning that deduction would not save my skin in this case. Would Watson arrive in time to come to my aid? How long had I been unconscious? I tried to determine this by guessing how much of the candle wax had melted away and deriving a formula for wax burned per amount of time elapsed.

At any rate, the man was turning away from me and toward his followers. "So it is written in the diaries of our Lord, that the second sacrifice will deliver itself unto our hands." I noticed, in a detached way, the level of attention he commanded from his subjects. "And, now my children, we will send this non-believer to hell."

I was quite unimpressed by this short speech, although I did become quite flustered when one of the cultists emerged from behind me with a blazing torch and a maddening smile.

"Set this doubter afire!" shouted the leader.

"Listen, listen!" I exclaimed, desperate to talk my way out of the situation. "You cannot do this now! You must wait. Gentlemen, I implore you, be reasonable!" I tugged and struggled against the ropes that held me. I attempted to strike the man holding the torch with my feet as he approached. I cried out as the flame was placed against my bare side! The agony I felt--!

—was imagined. Moments passed and I opened my eyes, hardly even realizing that I had clenched them shut to begin with. I barely even felt a shade of heat coming off the flame. Not to be swayed by my non-reaction, the cultist moved the torch to my chest and neck. This time I felt a little burning, but only in a very small centimetre of flesh above my left pectoral muscle. Nothing but that and the unshaven hair on my chin was singed.

A flush of emotion overcame me, even as I tried to hide it from the others in the room. _Oh, thank heavens! Thank God! Praise Buddha and Shiva and Vishnu! _To my relief, I realized that all my experimenting with that confounded fireproof solution had resulted in my being covered in the stuff. It was a lucky stroke that I had been too busy in the last two days to properly bathe.

"He does not burn, Master!" cried the man holding the flame. "What does it mean?"

The Master glared at me as all his disciples turned to him for answers. I saw the briefest flash of panic pass over his face as he realized how badly this could turn out for him. Nausea built up in my throat as I determined that he would just find another way to kill me to save face.

He swiftly lowered himself until there were mere inches between our faces, and held down my legs so that I would not attack him. "I don't know how the hell you did that," he whispered vehemently so that only I could hear, "but I will make you regret it, and your decision to stick your nose into my affairs even more."

He rose to his feet and faced his obedient disciples. "My dear child," said he to a nearby man, "bring to me the sacred preparation." The follower merely bowed and rushed off out of my line of sight. The Master addressed all of his followers, pulling his words out of thin air, I assumed. "Children of Lucifer, this too has been written about in the diaries of our dark Lord. This man is the ultimate enemy of our Worship, and he must be dealt with very carefully."

The man who had run to fetch the "sacred preparation" returned with an iron box, covered in designs of a devilish nature, and handed it to his leader. From within the box, the Master withdrew a syringe filled with a pinkish opaque liquid. I was helpless to do more than lash out uselessly with my legs as I was injected with the stuff. The last completely sane thing I experienced was the Master backing away from me, donning a heinous smile that would be the envy of Satan, himself.

The effect of the preparation was nearly immediate. It was starkly different than any drug I had ever used upon myself. I grew hot, and felt out of my head. I imagined that I was leaning over a cliff, and I heard music, a violin being played. I was distantly connected to the things that were going on around me. I was faintly aware of the sensation of being lashed and struck with fists. So many unfamiliar faces drifted through my sight. Briefly, I imagined Watson being there, being a participant. My ears rung and fluid burned my throat. I heard my brother's voice, from my childhood, scolding me. I felt my mother's gentle hands caring for me. Then pain ruptured in my leg and I disconnected from my body, falling into unconsciousness again.

--

Marill: With a guilty heart, I admit that I quite enjoyed writing that. ^_^ Some of it was meant to be humorous, I'll admit, haha, such as Holmes thanking the gods.


	7. Chapter 7

--Watson--

I had been scheduled to perform a minor procedure while Holmes was out gathering information. One of my patients on whom I had recently operated had incurred an infection at the surgery site and I needed to drain off some of the excess fluid and get him back on the way to recovering.

I expected it to be a short three hour procedure and I told Mrs. Hudson as much as I was leaving that morning. However, after a long time on the operating table as I was just starting to suture up the incision, my patient began to bleed excessively and I had to take an extra hour and a half to find the cause of the bleeding and cauterize the artery. For my patient's safety, I observed him for an hour to be certain that he would steadily improve, which he did.

I returned home, Mrs. Hudson greeting me in the foyer. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson," I said with a tired affect. "Could you bring up some black tea for me?"

"Certainly, Dr. Watson. You seem to have had a trying day," She said. I nodded with a weak grin. "Mr. Holmes dropped by and I told him you were in surgery."

"Oh thank you." I wondered if Holmes had made any progress on the case. I slowly went upstairs, my back aching from leaning forward in surgery for so many hours. I entered our silent, cluttered sitting area and all but fell upon a chair.

I must have fallen asleep because the very next thing that entered my awareness was Mrs. Hudson gently shaking me awake. "Doctor," she said, a tone of urgency in her voice. I shifted into a proper sitting position and blinked the exhaustion away from my eyes. "Doctor, did you find this note from Mr. Holmes? It sounds very important."

She handed me a small paper with my friend's handwriting upon it. "I am moving to stop another slaying taking place tonight at the church. I suspect you will arrive home by four o'clock. Your assistance is required at once. H."

I checked my pocket watch: 7:28. I couldn't help but think that if things had gone well he would have returned or sent word by now. Or, if seeing my absence, he may have called in Scotland Yard for assistance. _Highly unlikely_, I thought. Knowing Holmes, he had probably went after them single-handedly, and had very possibly gotten into trouble.

"Mrs. Hudson," I said, taking up my jacket and cane once again, "notify Inspector Lestrade and have him meet me at Reynolds Road Cathedral immediately."

I wasted no time in getting downstairs and hailing a cab. _Please be safe_, became my new mantra as my mind repeatedly fed me images of Holmes, murdered by the cult in some horrible and devilish ritual.

--

I stormed into the cathedral, looking for signs of debauchery as I passed the foyer and headed into the chapel. I nearly trampled over Father McKinn, who was walking toward his office.

"So good to see you, Dr. Watson," he said, as if he had been expecting me all day. "Will you be attending our service tonight, then?"

"Just what kind of service would that be?" I asked, not holding back my spite for the man's poking face.

"Our regularly Wednesday evening mass."

"Would you mind if I looked around?" I said. I was not asking. In fact, I was pushing the small man aside as the words came out of me.

"Are you looking for your friend, the detective?" asked McKinn, stopping me where I was. "He was here, but he left."

I studied the priest as he put his hands up in a gesture of innocence. His face gave nothing away. I was about to go back to my search of the building when I caught sight of three red spots on his white shirt cuff. I seized his arm where it was raised. "What is this? Blood!" I exclaimed. "Where is Holmes?"

Finally, I saw the little priest become shaken. He swallowed and his eyes grew worried. "It is only wine, Doctor. For the mass. Would you care for some?"

I threw his arm away from me. "I can see the guilt on your face, Father. What have you done with him?"

The innocence had returned to his expression. "I haven't done a thing, Doctor." He smiled cordially, warmly, even as my own expression had twisted into a silent threat of delivering serious harm to him.


	8. Chapter 8

--Watson--

Luckily for McKinn, Lestrade and three other officials arrived before I could pummel the priest into talking.

"What's going on here?" Lestrade asked me, pulling me to the side of the room.

"Sir, it's Holmes," I said allowing my emotions to seep through my words. I explained what had transpired, Holmes' note and his speculations about the church. "I was late arriving and now he's missing."

"Doctor," Lestrade chided me, "I don't have to tell you that for Holmes to disappear is quite typical behavior."

"I know that, but Inspector—" I paused to glance at McKinn, who was casually involved in a conversation with one of Lestrade's men. "That priest is hiding something. And I have an unsettling feeling. Please, just once, will you indulge my worry?"

Lestrade looked at me for a moment before answering. "I s'pose me and the boys could take a look around. In the meantime, Doctor, you might want to take a walk outside. You're looking pretty ill."

I simply nodded and my feet led me out of the door. Perhaps I was simply overreacting to the circumstances. All the taboo ideas surrounding cults had my heart rate up. Lestrade may very well have been right. Holmes liked to disappear for days at a time while on a case.

I tried to tell myself these things, but my heart refused to listen. I shambled back into the church, expecting as usual to be disappointed by Scotland Yard's incompetence. Lestrade was asking McKinn a few routine questions.

"Oh yes," McKinn was saying. "Elisabeth was a very active member here."

I impatiently stood off to one side, knowing that the conversation would not be prolific.

"Sir!" a red-haired officer called as he left McKinn's office. He was carrying an old book with a star-like symbol upon it. I recognized that symbol from Holmes' book. It was a cultist star called a pentagram. "We found this book. It looks like some kind of instructions for carrying out devilish rituals."

Lestrade took the book and thumbed through it. "That's enough for me," he said. "I'll need you to come with me for some more questioning," he told the priest, handing the book over to me for further inspection.

I was surprised at the weight of the small book. It was overlaid with some kind of metal. I turned to a creased page and read the following:

"We shall take her, our Sister, and marry her to our Master. Thus, having completed this act, she will live forever in his comfort and we will be blessed in his favor. To prepare her for her death and rebirth into marriage, she shall be lashed and made to no longer be pure. The finger upon which she would wear her wedding band must be cut from her and then placed inside our sacred altar. When three days have passed, she must then be hanged and left to our Master's pleasing. In order to complete this contract, a non-believer must also be sacrificed."

Upon reading this, my hearing failed me and I groped the wall for something to hold onto, finally sitting down on one of the sanctuary's benches. I read further, anxious to find what might have happened to my dear friend, or if as in Elisabeth Godber's death, the cult was required to wait a period of time. "The non-believer shall not be allowed to interfere in our sacred rituals. He will be burned and destroyed by hell's fires." I read this sentence many times, and with a deep knot forming in my stomach, I decided that it was literal.

An intense, blinding rage built up in my body, seeming to start at my feet and rise to my face. I singled out the target of my fervent anger: McKinn, in handcuffs, being led out of the building by Lestrade and another officer. I simply could not stop myself in that moment. I wanted to thrash the man who had cruelly taken my dearest friend from me.

My body operated on its own, taking McKinn to the ground and smashing my fist into his face, much to the surprise of the officers. "You devil! You snake! You burned him while he still breathed! You will regret it!"

Fearing for his safety, McKinn's façade was lost and he begged me to let go of him.

"I swear I am going to hunt you like an animal!" I yelled, as Lestrade gently removed me from McKinn's prone form. "Tell me, priest, is it true? Did you set fire to Holmes and kill him?" Venom dripped from my voice as I stared him down. I grabbed him by the collar roughly when he remained still.

"No!" he cried, looking at Lestrade as if begging him to stop me. The officer was silent. "W-we tried, but he would not burn. My master said we had to deal with him by other means…"

"Wouldn't burn?" I mused, then remembered Holmes' newest invention. "What did you do to him? How did you kill him?" I resigned myself to my friend's death, refusing to let my emotions overtake me any longer.

"We didn't kill him," McKinn said to my shock and relief. "We just tucked him away until his ultimate expiration." A look I had yet to see on his face emerged: smugness.

I wanted to break his jaw, but I knew that I needed him to be able to speak. "Where is he?"

The short priest closed his eyes, as if he were in deep reflection. In the tone of voice of a man reading from a page, he said, "Where the sun does not reach, where Satan's wife did teach; where no voice can escape, you will find him too late."

--

Marill: Chilling! Review :D


	9. Chapter 9

--Holmes--

I awoke for the second time that day. Was it even the same day? I had no idea. I felt the lingering haze of whatever drug had been given me. I strained my eyes in the unmitigated darkness. Was I blind? That didn't seem likely.

All at once, I felt pain all across my body, as if my wounds were screaming out for my attention. The back of my head where I had been struck throbbed in tune with my heartbeat. My shoulders felt numb with strain. My chest and back exuded a sharp burning all the way across them, feeling like I had several dozen deep abrasions. I could tell that my face was swollen, as though I had been in a fight and fared poorly. I shifted slightly and suddenly I felt my leg—oh God, my leg! I nearly lost consciousness when I became aware of the sensation of raw nerves and exposed tissue right down to the bone. All the other pains in my body seemed nonexistent in comparison.

With utmost care to insure that my leg would remain perfectly still, I moved to try and sit up. I became aware of many things. My hands were still bound tightly behind my back. I was lying across a rigidly uncomfortable surface that was broken and splintered in some places. The splinters dug into the skin of my lower back. Above me, there were a few small pockets of air and some places where more splinters stabbed at me. A small amount of a damp, grainy substance was in contact with my chest and neck.

In the next split-second, I reacted without judgement or reason as I realized that the grainy substance was dirt and that I was lying in a wooden coffin. I bucked with my entire body jolting my leg miserably in the process. I felt, more than heard my wrist snap as I twisted my hands and tried to rip my arms free of the rough ropes. I only succeeded in cracking the box open even further, allowing more dirt to fall upon me, sickeningly close to the wound in my leg, and into my mouth and eyes. I sputtered and shook my head wretchedly to get rid of the foul substance. I strained to hold my weight up off of my broken wrist, but failed, accepting the terrible pain with a defeated spirit.

Did the cult think me to be dead when they buried me? Apparently not, as they had taken precaution to keep my arms bound. Did Watson even realize that I was missing? Was anyone ever going to uncover me? Would my disappearance and soon my death forever remain unsolved? I hated the thought of that.

My injuries and the crushing pressure of the earth on top of me took away any hope of getting myself out of my predicament. I wondered how long I would have oxygen to breathe.

_Please find me Watson,_ I prayed thinking of my sole chance of surviving the ordeal. _Please do something._

--

Marill: Dun dun dun! Ah, considering the title, I assume it was pretty obvious where I was going with this, lol.


	10. Chapter 10

--Watson--

McKinn refused to say another word, save for repeating his disturbing poem again and again. Lestrade beckoned me to retire home for rest, promising to fiercely interrogate McKinn and to notify me the instant that _anything_ transpired.

On the cab ride home, I found it impossible to distract myself from thinking up a myriad of horrible situations in which Holmes awaited his death. I knew that he was relying on me to solve the case and get to him in time. But I was not accustomed to deciphering riddles and solving the unknown. I was not Sherlock Holmes and I needed him.

I could not help but wonder if Holmes was alive after all. McKinn could merely have been tormenting me by giving me the miniscule amount of hope I possessed.

I mulled over the priest's taunting riddle in my head. None of it really helped me. _Somewhere dark…somewhere he can't be heard…where Satan's wife did teach…Satan's wife_…but Elisabeth Godber had not been a teacher. From what Lestrade had told me, she had been an apprentice dressmaker, a seamstress.

My thoughts faded quietly into the night as I entered our flat, feeling helpless and defeated.

--

Sunlight slowly filled the sitting room. I had barely slept a wink, my obsessing thoughts keeping me too frightened to leave wakefulness for very long.

I suspected the same was true of Mrs. Hudson, since I had let her know all that I did about Holmes' disappearance. Confirming my suspicions, she brought tea and a light breakfast much earlier than was usual.

Her expression was somber. "I don't suppose you were able to sleep either, Doctor," she said. "I didn't want to fall asleep for fear of the nightmares I might have."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. We'll figure something out and will find him in time," I said, for her sake and my own.

She took a seat across from me. "I just can't stand the thought of it, Doctor. I hope that you arrest every single one of those cult members. I shudder to think that such a horrible affair was being carried on in this city—and in a church! Children attended the services there!"

She carried on in this fashion while I began to reason out this notion. "Mrs. Hudson," I interrupted her. "If they have children attending the church, do you suppose that they have confirmation classes?"

"Well, I believe it is likely, sir…"

I nearly leapt to my weary feet. "Mrs. Hudson, I apologize for asking you this again, but please have inspector Lestrade meet me at the church. Urgently. I believe I know where to find Holmes."

I neglected to grab my coat as I left our housekeeper staring at me, askance. I hustled into a cab and set off once again for the cathedral, one line from McKinn's riddle repeating in my head: _Where Satan's wife did teach_. McKinn had insisted that Miss Godber was very involved in the church and I was willing to wager that she was responsible for a confirmation class.

_Don't worry Holmes, I'm on my way._

--

Once again I barged into the deuced cathedral, startling an old woman who sat praying in front of the altar. I was glad to see someone who would know more about the church than I did. "I am terribly sorry for this intrusion, Madam, but where are the children's confirmation classes held? Please, this is very important police business." Not an outright lie.

"As far as I know, they are all held upstairs…Officer," she guessed.

"Very good," I said. My heart had begun pounding in my chest. "Thank you."

I ran back into the foyer and raced up the stairs. I came to a lone hallway lined with doors. All my hopes of finding Holmes hinged upon him being concealed in one of the study rooms. I flung open the first door, calling his name. The room was silent and empty, without so much as a coat closet that could hide the great detective. I checked all the rooms, becoming more frantic and yelling his name louder as I grew closer to the end.

Desperation struck me as I reached the final door, unable to control my trembling hand upon the doorknob. To my surprise, this door led to another short flight of stairs. I took them faster than seemed possible to ascend such a steep staircase. I pushed the door at the top of the stairs open and it was wrenched away from me by a strong wind.

I was on the roof. I nearly sunk to the floor, weeping in despair, but I knew that Holmes needed me, depended on me. I had to keep trying.

I met the old woman again as I entered the foyer. "Sir, did you find what you were looking for?" said she.

"No," I nearly choked. "Was Miss Elisabeth Godber's class taught in that hallway?"

The woman smiled sadly. "Elisabeth was my granddaughter. I loved her very dearly. I was just praying for her as I have everyday since…" Her voice left her and a look of immeasurable sorrow overcame her face.

"I am very sorry for your loss," I said. Bitterly, I wondered if I would soon hear these words for my own loss.

The grandmother regained her composure. "Elisabeth taught her class faithfully every Sunday in the second classroom on the right." I could only nod, willing myself to control my despondency. "But sometimes on a warm summer morning, she would take the children to have their lessons outside," she said with a nostalgic smile.

It may have been foolish, but I gripped this small shred of hope as tightly as I could. "Outside in the courtyard?" I asked.

"Yes," the woman said, surprised. "Underneath the big tree on the grass."

"Bless you," I said, taking her hands into mine briefly before I ran outside. I arrived at the back of the considerably large church and spotted the tree. As I approached it, I began to feel silly, wondering just exactly what I expected to find.

The yard was very substantial and had richly green grass. I placed my hand upon the tree and took a brief glance around. On the other side of the tree near a fence that barricaded the courtyard and a small cemetery, there was a long plot of dirt that had recently been dug up. It stood out in sheer contrast to the well-kept lawn around it. I approached it apprehensively. It didn't look like a plot for flowers besides which there were no plants anywhere in the courtyard. It may have been a burial site, except there appeared to be plenty of room in the adjacent cemetery.

A shimmer of metal in the dirt caught my eye. I reached for the object, feeling its great weight as I did. I gasped out loud. It was an iron star symbol, the same as the one on the ritual book and in Holmes' research book.

_Could it be?_ I wondered. _Did they bury him?_ I thought back to the poem. _Where the sun does not reach, where Satan's wife did teach, where no voice can escape…_As these thoughts sunk into my consciousness, I began to fiercely claw at the moist dirt. I pulled fistfuls away from me, flinging them behind me like an old hound.

I had only dug about two feet down when I realized that the task was going to require a spade. I rose up from my sodden knees, hastily searching the area for such a tool. Blessedly, I found one leaning against the opposite side of the barrier fence.

I returned wildly to my digging, the effort seemingly unending. Sweat fell down my face, even in the chill of the winter morning without my coat. My chapped hands and my shoulder ached but I petulantly disregarded them.

I was nearly jarred out of my mind when the shovel struck a hard surface. I pulled dirt away from the object, finding that it was a piece of wood. As I dug further, the piece of wood became a plank of wood, which became a sheet of wood, which became a box, broken in some areas.

"Dear God," I whispered. It was a coffin. Now, slowly and with my hands, I pushed away the remaining dirt so that I could open the casket.

It was with trepidation and fear that I removed the lid and revealed the contents to myself and the clouded sun.


	11. Chapter 11

Marill: A very short entry today, my loves! Just something to hold you over while I work on the last two chapters. ^_^

--

I received such a fright when I saw Holmes' bruised, marred face colored a sickly grey. Of its own accord my hand went to his throat, his stunningly cold throat, feeling for a pulse. I scarcely cared that my friend's heartbeat was thready and somewhat irregular. I cared that he was _alive._

"Not a corpse, not a corpse," I repeated to myself, tears of relief running down my face. So long as my friend's heart was beating, I would do all that was in my range of abilities to save him. I told myself that the grey coloring of his skin was due to the dirt which had seeped in through the broken coffin.

My reprieve was short-lived as I realized that Holmes was in a very poor state. I prayed that Lestrade would arrive shortly to help me transport him to a more sterile and comfortable environment. Holmes was bare-chested, revealing his chest and stomach covered in lash marks, dirt mixing in with the open wounds. His arms were pulled tightly behind his back and I realized with a grimace that they were bound.

Gingerly, nearly sitting in the coffin with him, I lifted him up by his shoulders to untie him. I saw that his back was just as battered as his chest. His right wrist was swollen and hung awkwardly in the bonds. I delicately checked and confirmed that it was broken. It was a bittersweet moment when I saw that he thankfully still had all of his fingers.

I took my knife and cut away the ropes that held my injured friend defenseless. When I lowered him back to a prone position and gently pulled his arms to the front of him, he groaned and shivered.

"Holmes?" I said, searching for signs of wakefulness.

His eyes opened slowly, squinting in the brightness of the morning. His pained expression met mine. "Watson…" he croaked. "M-my leg…" He groped helplessly toward his left leg with his uninjured wrist.

"Take it easy, old boy." I tried to calm him. "Just lie still, everything will be okay." He seemed to settle down and I moved to inspect the leg he had been gesturing toward. I raked away some of the dirt that had fallen there, causing Holmes to cry out in agony before he grew still, having fainted. His reaction, however, was not what startled me so terribly that I lost my grip on the coffin and nearly fell on top of him. There was a long, very deep gash all the way down his thigh, angry red streaks and yellowish fluid mingling with the dirt around it. My mind went back to my days in the service where I had been witness to many such vile wounds, nearly glowing with contamination. It was a knife which had done this harrowing job on him and it was mortally infected.

Holmes shivered and sweated in his damp grave as I finally joined him in his coffin. I did not have any medical supplies with me, but I dared not leave him in this position, vulnerable and fading. I took his hand in mine and began to wipe dirt from his face with my handkerchief, beseeching Lestrade to arrive swiftly.

"It's all right Holmes," I crooned. "I'm here, I'll take care of you now."


	12. Chapter 12

Major fluff and Holmes-petting ahead!

--

Watson

--

I heard Inspector Lestrade's voice echoing from the other side of the church and realized that he would not know where to find me.

"Holmes," I said. He was unresponsive as he had been the last ten minutes. "I have to go around and let Lestrade know where we are so we can take you out of here." I touched my hand to his stark-white face, frozen and nearly hypothermic. I swallowed back tears of anguish at the thought of leaving him even for a few minutes, exposed to the bitter chill, his lips already faintly blue. Without thought, I removed my own thin shirt and draped it across his chest, tucking it in at his sides. "Don't worry, Holmes, I'll be right back. You are going to be fine."

Opposite to my careful, slow movements inside the grave with Holmes, I stumbled out of the hole running haphazardly in the direction of Lestrade's voice. Although I paid no mind to myself at the time, I imagine I was a fairly amusing sight that morning: half-naked, covered in muck, yelling and sprinting across a church courtyard.

I spotted Lestrade who scarcely had time to react to my state of disarray before I grabbed him and started tugging him along behind me toward Holmes.

"Good God, man!" he remarked, struggling to keep up with my pace. "What the devil is going on? Have you found him?"

I wanted to wallop him for such an obvious question, but there was no time. Holmes needed to be warmed and quickly.

I released my hold on the officer's arm once we arrived at the grave site. I still shudder to think that it may indeed have been Holmes' final resting place.

To my great appreciation and respect, Lestrade did not make a fuss or react in shock upon seeing Holmes' desolate and sickly form in the coffin. He worked with me quietly and swiftly to remove the injured detective from the ground, offering up his own policeman's jacket for the cause of thawing Holmes.

We managed to secure Holmes into a hansom cab without stirring him to wakefulness. While relieved that he had suffered no pain during the excursion, I was also concerned that he could no longer be roused.

I settled in beside him on the bench, lifting his torso into my lap without hesitation. Lestrade was not in a disapproving mood for which I was grateful. "You'll be taking him to the hospital, then?" Lestrade asked me, preparing to give instructions to the driver.

"Absolutely not," I said. "I'm taking him to the flat where I can be assured that no one else will have access to him." I did not want to risk any cult members having the chance to bring more harm to him.

Lestrade nodded in understanding. He said a few words to the driver and locked eyes with mine briefly before our cab pulled away.

--

Mrs. Hudson was in quite a flustered state when we arrived back at Baker Street. I asked the driver of the cab, a friendly Scotsman, to assist me in carrying my charge upstairs and he graciously obliged. Mrs. Hudson began fretting the instant we walked in the door, asking what I needed for her to do. The cabbie and I carefully took Holmes, who was now covered by a shirt, a workcoat and two blankets, upstairs.

"Mrs. Hudson," I said, as I myself started to become troubled over Holmes' condition, "I would be very alleviated if you could draw a warm bath right away.

"Of course, Doctor," she said complacently. She lingered for a moment at my side. "He'll be all right, won't he?"

"God willing, Mrs. Hudson," I said simply, dismissing her. I thanked our driver and gave him a handful of coins, allowing him to find his own way back downstairs.

I checked my beloved patient's condition. He seemed agitated from all the movement and was gripping the bedclothes tightly. He lips were still cyanotic, so I wrapped more coverings on top of him and around his head. I needed him to reach a stable body temperature before I placed him into the hot bath, or I risked him falling into shock.

The poor man looked so pathetic and miserable that I had to do something more. Lifting up the mass of blankets and other coverings, I climbed into the bed next to his shivering form. I wrapped my body around his, willing the warmth of my own body to heat his.

I lay there for ten minutes before his trembling finally ceased. I mentally catalogued my friend's injuries as I lay there, not wanting to disturb him quite yet. His leg was most serious and would need to be treated before I could think about putting him in the tub. It was most likely that I would have to scour the wound to boil out the nasty infection. I hoped that Holmes could manage to stay unconscious during the procedure. In his fragile state, I dared not use an anesthetic.

I sighed as I slowly climbed out of the bed. Holmes lay as white as his bedclothes, his brow furrowed in his silent torment. I left to rummage through my desk for the supplies I was going to need for cleaning and wrapping the knife wound: alcohol, a water basin, soap, carbolic acid, gauze, bandages, towels and morphine.

Mrs. Hudson met me in the sitting room to let me know that the bath was ready. I thanked her and told her to get some rest, that I would take care of everything else.

At least that was my hope.

--

I had removed Holmes' trousers, since I would need to remove them for his bath anyhow. It gave me a chance to see the full effect of his ordeal. From head to foot, he was covered in dirt, mixed with dry and wet blood. He was positively covered in wounds and abrasions, but only had one broken bone. I shook my head as I surveyed him, horrified at his state and furious with his aggressors.

I placed several towels underneath the affected area on his leg. My anger softened when he gave an involuntary cringe at the simple movement. I was sickened that the infection had grown worse since I had first observed it. His leg was tangibly warmer than the rest of his body by far. The wound appeared to have grown even redder than before, and more yellowish fluid was draining from it. I had no more time to wait. I gave Holmes the smallest effective does of morphine, hating to put him through more pain, and yet striving to protect his condition from growing any worse.

It was a gut-wrenching process, cleaning and disinfecting the wound. At one point, in a pain-induced delirium, Holmes became partially awake and tried to weakly fight me as though I were a demon from some nightmarish world. I gently reassured him, while I held his flailing upper body down with my left arm, continuing to work on the wound with my right.

When I had finally finished, we were both exhausted and soaked with sweat. Still, I had to keep working and get my senseless friend into the bath. It was not difficult to carry him the short distance to the bathtub in the adjoining room. I imagine even if he were completely healthy and properly fed (if such a state of being could exist for Holmes), I should easily be able to lift him for a brief time.

I tested the inviting temperature of the water and then with no small amount of exertion, I lowered him into the tub. The transfer helped to wake him and he blinked groggily at his environment.

Spying me, brow raised in confusion, he said, "Watson? Is it still today?"

"What do you mean, Holmes?" I wondered. "It's always today." I reached for a box of soap.

Holmes managed to look even more confused at that. Then, soothed by the water and lulled by the morphine, he drifted back to sleep.

I smiled, relieved that at least for the moment, my friend seemed to be recovering. I washed away the boundless amount of dirt and carefully cleaned all of Holmes' wounds. Even after I was finished, he looked as though he had been beaten with a meat tenderizer. His face had swollen further and the bruises there had become darker. The littering of angry welts across his chest and back were red and inflamed. While I was washing his tangled hair, I found a gash on the back of his head and an alarming amount of dried blood. Once I had washed away the dirt and blood so that I could see the cut, I knew that he would need stitches. While he was fairly content under the morphine's comfort, I sutured up the back of my friend's head with a small amount of catgut.

Finally, once I had cleaned every inch of his marred body, I briefly left him to go replace his bedclothes. I then dressed him and laid him in his bed like a sick child. I bandaged his broken wrist and placed it carefully at his side. I wrapped his torso loosely to cover the littering of deep wounds.

I sat down in a chair next to Holmes' bed, wondering if I had missed anything. He simply lay there, having been contented throughout all of my ministrations.

After all that strain, cleaning all his wounds, lifting him, moving his awkward limbs around, scouring his badly infected leg, in addition to staying awake all night worrying for his safety, I could hardly keep my own eyes open. I leaned back in my chair slightly, intending to catch just a few moments' rest.

--

A sharp sound broke through my slumber. I sat up quickly, realizing that I had slept through the afternoon and into the evening hours. I turned on the lamp and stood up to check on my patient's condition.

Holmes was fitfully jerking in his bed, his blankets flung to one side. His face and neck were flushed and covered in sweat. He mumbled something that I could not understand. Concerned, I put my hand to his face and felt the warmth there.

"Holmes." I shook him gently, with no response. Just a few hours earlier he had been nearly hypothermic and now he was burning up with fever and probably suffering from shock. I checked his bandages to see if there were telltale signs of new infections. Holmes yelped in pain periodically while I looked him over, likely the same yelps that had woken me.

I checked his leg to be sure that I had cleaned it sufficiently. As I loosened the bandages, Holmes began to utter my name. "Watson…oh, God, please, you've got to find me! My body is decaying…the worms are coming for me!" I shuddered as he cried out in his feverish worries. His leg, however, appeared fine.

I tried to rouse him, to no avail. He simply could not grasp my presence. For the next couple of hours he drifted in and out of his delirium, crying out for me and begging me to help him, although I continuously assured him that I was with him and that he was safe. Occasionally, my name was substituted for his brother's, and he would take on a childlike air. All the while, I tried desperately to anchor him to the present, holding his hand tightly and wiping his brow with a towel.

I kept praying for the dawn, holding out that a new day would bring recognition and health back to my poor friend.

--

Marill: Yay! I mean…I hope Holmes gets better!


	13. Chapter 13

Marill: Wow! Sorry it's been so long. I have had things…but on with the final chapter! ^.^

--

I entered the sitting room, morning's paper in hand. I shed my coat, scarf and hat, and crossed to Holmes, who lay across our couch, grumbling. He was fussing with three pillows, unable to find a comfortable position in his convalescent state.

After two unsteady days in which I hardly left his side for a minute, Holmes was at last improving, and quite well. He was not pleased with my orders to stay in bed, and considered my permitting him to spend his days on the couch a great victory. Even so, he was longing to get out of the apartment and involve himself in the profusion of cultist arrests in which Lestrade was reveling.

"Confound it, Watson!" he exclaimed, snatching the newspaper from me. "How am I to assist in identifying cult members if I'm trapped in this drafty apartment?" He scanned the paper for a moment before looking up at me again. "I don't suppose they've found my shoes…"

I sighed. During his abduction, the cult had done something with his shoes and most of his clothes. I had yet to see him awake when he wasn't complaining about the fact. "You have other shoes, Holmes," I reminded him.

"I need those shoes. I like them," he snapped.

As abrasive and, quite honestly, annoying Holmes was being, I knew that I had better treasure the time before he could put weight on his leg and I had to hold him down to be sure he stayed indoors. "I will buy you a new pair myself," I offered.

"Bah," he mumbled, allowing the paper to drop to his lap. His gaze drifted to the window. "They're never going to find him on their own, you know. Surely by now he's fled the country anyway."

"Who are you talking about, Holmes?" I asked.

"The cult's master, Watson," he said. "I have an inkling but I shall have to look around that church some more before I can be certain…" He gained a deeply introspective look.

I was about to warn him about the dangers of seeking out such a man when Mrs. Hudson knocked and entered the room.

"Excuse me sirs, but Mr. Holmes has a visitor—a young lady," she said.

"Well, I don't know if he's up to receiving company—" I began.

"Nonsense," interjected Holmes. "Send her in."

As Mrs. Hudson went to do just that, Holmes struggled to gain a sitting position. I aided him, noting that he clenched his teeth in pain throughout the process.

Another knock and our door opened on a beautiful young woman dressed in the very strangest attire—a patchwork dress, a dozen odd necklaces, large circular earrings and brown sandals, despite the snow outside. She had dark hair and an olive complexion, likely a Mediterranean. She smiled brightly when she spotted Holmes, who had a completely opposite affect upon recognizing her.

"Oh no," my companion moaned.

"Inspector Sherlock, I heard about your misfortunes and I wanted to bring you some of my natural remedies," said the woman. She hefted a large black bag, which was full to bursting, a few feathers and herbs poking through the top of the bag. "Hello, I'm Rose," she said to me.

"Oh, very nice to meet you," I said. "I'm Dr. Watson. Are you a friend of Holmes?"

"She is not," Holmes growled. "Watson, keep her away from me. I do not wish to be assisted by superstitious flotsam."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous Inspector! I'm going to make you a nice pot of bancha twig tea and give you a hot stone massage. But first," she set down her bag and closed the distance between herself and my grimacing friend, "I need to clear your presence of negative emotion." To Holmes' great protest, she then started to press her hand against his forehead and chant.

"Watson! Watson!!" he cried. He tried fighting off the gypsy with his good arm while I sat back, chuckling. Maybe Holmes would benefit from some "natural remedies."

--

Marill: Yes, that is the end! It makes me kind of sad; it was a lot of fun to write. Soooo, here's what I'm thinking! I'm going to do a sequel: either a humorous tale of Holmes trying to recover his shoes, or a longer and more serious story of Holmes and Watson tracking down the cult mastermind. What do you think?


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